“And I suppose the Orange Order will have shamrocks and harps on their sashes and the Gaelic Athletic Association will switch from playing Gaelic football and hurley to rugby and cricket?” Davy sat on the chair. Symbols, he thought, shamrocks, harps, and orange sashes. Irish flags, British flags. Irish games, British games—symbols of the two tribes. But symbols as powerful as—as the Ark of the Covenant to a Jew, the Liberty Bell to an American, Mecca and Medina to a Muslim.
“You’re in a great mood today, Father. Look. We’re going to win. That’s all there’s to it.” Eamon lay back on his cot and put both hands behind his head. “Tiocfaidh àr la.”
Davy bent forward in his chair. “Eamon?”
“What?”
“I saw you talking to McGuinness after Mass.”
“Aye.”
“Would you not think again about what you and the other lads’re up to?”
“Why?” Eamon sat upright as if he had a hinge at his waist. “We have thought about it. Thought about bugger all else for the last couple of years.”
Davy rose and closed the cell door before lowering his voice and saying, “Ireland’s a very wee country. An island. Every peeler and every soldier’ll be on the lookout. The airports and the harbours’ll be closed. You’d not be safe in England. The Brits would have Interpol after you in Europe. There’s those who’d inform as quick as look at you. I wish you’d not do it.”
Eamon laughed. “And I wish you’d come. Your stock’s pretty high with the Officer Commanding since you done us that wee favour. I could still get you in on it. How is the paw, by the way?”
Davy held up his left hand so that Eamon could see the Elastoplast strip. “On the mend.”
“Good.” Eamon rolled off his cot to stand on the floor. “Davy, do you never feel as if some bugger had the walls of this place on some kind of ratchet and was squeezing them closer every day?”
“Of course.”
“And do you not want to get out? Fight on? You’ve been in the struggle since before I was weaned.”
Davy shook his head. “I’m done with it.”
“So you say, but I’ll bet…”
“I want no more of it.”
“But you told me your da was in. He got you in.”
“And I stayed in because of him.” Davy limped to the wall, turned, stood and stared at Eamon. Should he tell Eamon about Da? Why not? Eamon was Davy’s friend. Davy took a deep breath and blew it out through the hairs of his moustache. “Eamon, I killed my own da.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. Back in the fifties. I was learning bomb making. One went off by mistake. Killed Da and three other men. Fucked up my leg.” Davy massaged his left thigh. “It never healed right. That’s why the bloody thing bust when I was trying to get away the day they caught me.”
Was it because he’d just returned from Mass with all its talk of redemption, forgiveness of sins, that he thought the second breaking of the bone might have been God’s retribution—yet his own absolution for the deaths of all the people his bombs had killed or maimed—for Ireland?
“Your own da?” Eamon put a hand on Davy’s arm. “Jesus Christ, that’s ferocious, so it is.”
“Aye. Well.” Davy moved away from Eamon, discomfited by his touch. “I miss him yet. Just before he died, he made me promise to go on fighting. And I did. For years. Because I promised Da and because I used to believe, the way you believe, but … Eamon, I’ve had enough killing.”
Eamon folded his arms across his chest. “Davy, that’s quite a mouthful you’ve just told me, about your da and all … and … like … I’m sorry for your troubles. I really am.” He walked away and turned under the cell’s tiny window.
“It’s not your problem, Eamon.”
“I know that, but, Jesus, man … we’re friends.”
“Do you not think I know that?” Davy could still feel the warmth of Eamon’s hand on his arm. “That’s why I’m telling you not to go. Not with McGuinness.”
“Brendan’s not such a bad head.”
Davy almost spat on the cell floor, but knew that if he had done he’d be the one who had to clean it up.
“Father Davy. I know you and him had your differences.” Eamon let his arms fall to his sides. “And I know you think I’m daft. But neither you nor Jesus Christ Himself nor all the saints could talk me out of it.”
“I tried.”
“You did, but I’m going. And Davy?”
“What?”
“Do you remember that old Beatles song?”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Come on. Let’s get some lunch.” As Eamon headed for the door, Davy heard his friend singing an old Beatles song. “It won’t be long. It won’t be looong.”
CHAPTER 10
TYRONE. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1983
Sammy McCandless’s confession and the act of contrition he’d been told to make had taken far too long. It had seemed like he’d never finish saying an Ave Maria and a Paternoster at all twenty-six Stations of the Cross. He was going to be late for his meeting.
He wheezed as he pedaled his bike up the hill to Point Alpha, a roadhouse on the outskirts of the town of Newtownstewart, smack in the middle of the area that the British Green Army, the regular, uniformed soldiers of the line regiments, called Bandit Country: territory so dominated by the Provos that troop movement was only safe by helicopter, never by road.
He’d returned the horse box to the O’Byrne’s farm this morning, had a quick cup of tea with Erin and Cal and confirmed that the arms delivery had been made without any hitches. He was disappointed that no mention was made of the mysterious events that might happen at the Kesh, and Sammy had been smart enough not to ask questions. No point in arousing suspicion. He couldn’t afford that. Not if he valued his life.
At that moment, as the rain sheeted almost horizontally against the raincoat that he wore back to front to keep the wind out, he didn’t put too high a price on his existence. If he didn’t die of fucking pneumonia out on a day like this, he’d be as good as dead if anyone saw him talking to the man he was to meet at the Royal Ulster Constabulary, E4A Special Branch (antiterrorist). Still, he tried to comfort himself, nobody in their right mind would go out today unless they had to, would they?
He crested the hill and saw the car he was expecting in the inn’s car park. The battered old Lada was close to a fuchsia hedge. It was too thick for anyone to burst through on the left side of the car. Ahead, a tall brick wall blocked access to the car park where the summer’s purple and scarlet fuchsia blossoms lay scattered on the tarmac like tiny, dying ballerinas. A cattle lorry hemmed in the vehicle on its right.
As Sammy propped his bike against the hedge, he could hear the lowing of the beasts in the transporter and caught a whiff of their barnyard smell. He bent and tried to look in through the car’s windows, but they were obscured by condensation. His contact, code-named Spud, must have been here for a while. Sammy rapped on the window.
When the window was lowered, Sammy found himself looking into a pair of green eyes with a triangular brown segment in the iris of the left. The rest of the face was unremarkable. No moustache. His sandy hair was short, but not cropped like a soldier’s. Sammy knew that a military cut stood out like a neon sign, even when the troops were off duty and wearing civvies. The Provos had a habit of killing off-duty soldiers and members of the Ulster Defence Regiment, civilians who worked as part-time soldiers and who had replaced the auxiliary police force, the B-Specials. In a small community, the UDR volunteers were well-known, easy targets, and very vulnerable to sneak attacks.
A cigarette drooped from the man’s lips and jiggled when he said, “Get in.” The door was pushed half-open. “You’re late. You’d me worried.”
Sammy climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “I come as quick as I could. I fucking near didn’t come at all.” Sammy picked his nose.
“I was going to give you ten more minutes and then I’d’ve
been off.”
“You can fuck off anytime you like. I’d like to see the back of you for good and all. Six months you’ve had me at this. And haven’t I given you good stuff?” Sammy wondered at his own bravado. The man in the driver’s seat was built like a brick shit-house, and Sammy knew too bloody well that a word from him in the right place and he wouldn’t be seeing Spud again. He’d not be seeing nobody never again. They’d find him lying in a ditch with a green bin bag over his bullet-smashed head and a twenty-pound note, his Judas money, clutched in his hand.
“Don’t be like that, Sunshine. Here, have a fag.” Spud pulled out a packet of Gallaher’s Greens and offered one.
Sammy took it and accepted a light. He clutched the cigarette between nicotine-stained knuckles. His fingers were trembling. Maybe he shouldn’t have said what he just had. Spud, not Jesus Christ, was going to be Sammy’s sure road to salvation.
“Have a draw on that and take a grip on your knickers. I can wait.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” When the Provos found out that one of their own had turned informer, they did not put much stock in a few acts of contrition by way of penance. They were more prone to blowing off an offender’s kneecaps—or putting a bullet in his head after they’d wrung as much information out of him as they could.
He saw Spud glance in the rearview mirror. He was jumpy, too. Maybe all of these E4A men were trained to be careful. They’d need to be. They were the ones that worked with—Sammy hesitated over the word—informers.
“Here,” he heard Spud say as he handed over an envelope. “Maybe that’ll help you calm down.”
Sammy took the envelope.
“You’re not going to check it?”
“Nah.” Sammy could feel the banknotes. “I trust you. I fucking well have to, don’t I?”
“Sure, you know you can do that.” Spud spoke softly, like a mother to a frightened ten-year-old. “You and me’s got to be mates, haven’t we?”
“Aye.” It was true they had. Sammy’s narrow shoulders relaxed. “I suppose so.”
“Come on, Sammy. We are mates.”
The hell they were, but who else could Sammy trust since he’d turned? Maybe this RUC man was just playacting. Sammy had heard that the E4A officers were trained to make friends with their sources—he preferred that word to “touts”—to gain their trust. Try to get into their minds. Was that all Spud’s friendship was about?
“If we’re such good pals, why won’t you tell me your real name? You know mine.” Sammy hadn’t meant to sound querulous. He picked his nose. He always did that when he was nervous. And why wouldn’t he be nervous? The envelope made a crackling sound in his hand. It wasn’t the money he’d come for. It was the promise—
“Come on, Sammy. You know I can’t do that. Still doesn’t mean we’re not…”
“Friends. Aye. I know.”
“And friends tell each other things, don’t they?”
“I’ve two things for you, but I’m not telling you unless…” He thrust the envelope at Spud. “I don’t want your money no more. I want you to keep your promise. I want into one of them witness-protection deals in England. You promised…”
“And?”
“You fucking well promised,” Sammy shouted.
There was a loud “Bang!”
Sammy ducked behind the dashboard. “What the hell was that?”
“There’s beasts in that there lorry. One must’ve stamped a hoof.”
Sammy straightened. “I near shit myself. I thought it was a gun.”
“Come on, Sam. Don’t be so jumpy. What’s really bothering you?” He sounded like a mummy again.
Sammy’s façade of toughness cracked. “I can’t take it no more. I’m scared. I’m all on my own…”
“You’ve me. I look after you. Don’t I look after you?”
Sammy nodded.
“’Course I look after you.” He offered the envelope. “And the money’s not bad. Twenty quid a week.”
“I told you, I don’t want the fucking money.”
“Jesus Christ.” Spud let an edge creep into his voice. “I thought you and me was friends.”
Sammy’s head drooped.
“Come on, Sam, are we not?”
“I’m fucking well petrified.” Sammy’s lower lip trembled.
Spud laid a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “I know.” He forced a short laugh. “I get windy myself sometimes.”
“Do you?” Sammy lifted his head. His black eyes darted from side to side like tiny trapped animals. Then he looked into Spud’s. “Honest to God?”
“Your lot shoot peelers.”
Sammy saw him glance in the rearview mirror. “Right enough.”
“Takes guts to do what we do. I think you’re a brave man, Sammy McCandless.”
“Honest to God?”
“Honest. Here.” He reoffered the envelope. “Take it. You’ve earned it.”
Sammy did. He fingered the envelope. “The money’ll come in handy. I’m saving it up for when I get out of Ireland.”
“Good idea. Mind you, the witness-protection blokes’ll give you your pocket money … when we do get you out.”
“They will, won’t they?”
“You hang on to the cash. That’s your regular weekly in there, and you didn’t drag me out in the pissing rain just to get that. There’s a bonus for good information. You said you’d two things to tell me.”
“And I’ll get the bonus?”
“Come on, Sam. You know the rules. You give me the information, and if it pays off, your next envelope’ll be a damn site fatter than that one. Could be five hundred.”
“And you will see about getting me into the witness-protection thing?”
“Tell you what, Sam. If what you’re going to tell me is really good stuff, I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
You’re hearing what you want to hear, Sammy told himself, but where else could he turn? He tossed his cigarette butt out of the car. “Fair enough.” His finger guddled in his nostril. “The first one’s a sure thing. I brought in a shipment last night. Half a dozen ArmaLites and a wheen of Semtex from over the border. I stashed them in an old grave in Ballydornan churchyard.” Sammy knew what the Security Forces could do once they’d got their hands on the weapons. They could fit one of the weapons with a miniature transmitter and use its signals to track the guns to their final destination. The British army called that technique jarking. Or perhaps they could nick the blokes that came to collect the cache.
“When’s the pickup?”
So they did want to lift the collectors, and one of them might be Erin. Good thing Cal hadn’t said when. Sammy fished in his raincoat pocket, produced a peppermint, and popped the white sweetie into his mouth. When he spoke, his words were indistinct and the inside of the car was filled with a minty smell. “I don’t know. You just arrange to find them.”
“Hardly worth the effort. When’ll they be picked up?”
“Jesus, are you deaf? I don’t fucking well know.”
Spud took out his packet of smokes. He lit one for himself. He did not offer one. “And you want me to get you into a witness … You’re doting if you think a few rifles in Ballydornan churchyard is worth that.”
“Look … I’ll phone you if I find out.” And I’ll make sure that Erin doesn’t go, he thought.
“That’s better.” Spud drew on his cigarette. “Sorry. Want another one?”
Sammy grabbed the packet and helped himself. “What are you going to do?”
“Leave it to me, and don’t you worry, Sam. If me and my lot think going after them and the blokes that come to get them would blow your cover, we’ll just let the hare sit. You’re far too good a man to risk.”
“I am, amn’t I?”
“You’re bloody right. One of the best.”
“Right enough. And you will ask about the other?”
“I might, but you said you’d two things for me.”
“Aye.” Sammy tripped over his words in his hurry to satisfy. “There’s something big on. Really big. Don’t know what it is. At the Kesh. Soon. I overheard things…”
“Like what?”
A shadow fell over the car. Sammy looked up. A man had moved between the Lada and the cattle truck. Spud’s hand went to the glove compartment. Does he have a gun in there? Sammy wondered. He wasn’t going to wait to find out. He whispered, “I’m off,” and bolted.
As soon as he’d wheeled his bike to the exit from the car park, he looked back. The stranger was hauling himself into the cab of the cattle lorry, and the Lada was reversing. Sammy guessed the stranger had asked to be given room to get his big vehicle out.
The lorry driver finished reversing and ground the gears as he moved into first. He passed Sammy on his way out and took the road toward Strabane. Sammy remembered the abattoir where the occupants of the cattle lorry were going. He gave a little shudder and then cycled out of the parking lot, following in the muddy backwash of the lorry’s rear wheels in the downpour of a Tyrone Sunday morning.
CHAPTER 11
VANCOUVER. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1983
There was hardly a cloud over English Bay, a mere ruffle of white on the water. The wind would be coming from the west at about ten knots. That should send Windshadow scudding through the water without heeling too much. In stronger blows, Tim reveled in storming along, but Fiona had to work to convince herself that the boat wasn’t going to capsize.
Fiona strode toward Burrard Civic Marina, where Tim kept Windshadow, now known affectionately to both of them as plain Windy. She shifted her sports bag to her other hand. The bottle of Chardonnay, wrapped in a heavy sweater, should be safe enough. The wine was a peace offering for the way she’d behaved last night. An evening that had started so well had fallen apart when Jimmy Ferguson had appeared out of nowhere like a pantomime demon. Dammit, she’d tried to persuade Tim not to join the Fergusons for that after-dinner drink, but Tim, typical of the man, hadn’t wanted to hurt anybody’s feelings.
As she crested the hill in Vanier Park, kites still flew, the smaller dominated by a massive contraption with a large, round head and great, long, skinny tail. It was often here. Tim said he thought it looked like a giant sperm. That was part of what she liked about the man. He had a delightful way of putting an eccentric spin on ordinary things.
Now and in the Hour of Our Death Page 9